


Promise and Pirozhki

by Allekha



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Backstory, Cats, Childhood, Family, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Original Character Death(s), Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 20:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13038648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allekha/pseuds/Allekha
Summary: Yuri, ages five to fifteen: eating his grandpa's pirozhki, making his grandma smile, ignoring his mom's broken promises, earning a stray kitten's trust, and becoming a better skater than anyone else.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [buckytasha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckytasha/gifts).



> Written for buckytasha in exchange for a donation to Fandom Love Puerto Rico. Thank you!

Mama was late.

Mama was often late, but Yuri had never been here so long before, the last kid waiting to be picked up from his kindergarten. And Yuri wasn't good at reading clocks yet, but the teacher was getting increasingly agitated, so it must have been as late as it felt to him. The teacher had tried to call Mama several times, and also his grandparents (who, Yuri could have told her, wouldn't be home right now anyway). Then she'd come over and asked Yuri if anyone else helped to take care of him, the irritation clear under the sweet expression she pasted over it.

No, Yuri didn't have a Papa, or another Mama. No, he didn't have any aunts or uncles she could call. No older siblings. No neighbors he usually stayed with (he only knew one other person in the whole building, a retired old lady with three cats who had let him pet one of them a couple of times).

The teacher's face went pinched. She stood up and went back to the phone, started to dial again. Just as she did so, Mama finally burst in.

She kept apologizing to the teacher as she helped Yuri into his coat and hat ("I'm really very sorry, it won't happen again—"). Yuri, mad because his teacher was angry at him when it wasn't his fault, and mad because Mama had made him wait forever and ever, and mad because he was _hungry_ , made Mama practically drag him down the sidewalk. He didn't want the long walk home. He wanted to be at home already.

"Yura," Mama snapped, several times, trying to pull him along faster. Eventually, she gave up and bent over to scoop him up onto her hip, and hey, this was better. Yuri liked being high up. And now he didn't even have to walk! "You're getting too big to be carried like this," Mama grumbled, but then her voice softened. "I'm sorry for being so late," she said, this time to him. "Work kept me, and then the metro was – and then – oh, nevermind. Come on, stop pouting. I'll make you something good for dinner. What do you want to have?"

"Pirozhki!"

"You don't want _my_ pirozhki," she said, and that was true; he wanted Grandpa's pirozhki, golden and warm and perfect. "We're not going to Grandma and Grandpa's today."

"You _asked_ what I wanted."

She laughed, and then she put him down as they reached the metro and made him walk again, holding tightly to his hand. A while later, they were finally home in their little apartment – little, but it was big enough for just the two of them. Mama immediately started making dinner. Yuri liked to help, but today she didn't let him, although she did ask him about his day and listened while he told her about what they'd learned in class.

Sometimes, if Mama wasn't too tired, she would read to him. She had a nice voice; Mama said that she had been a singer, once, and if he was _really_ lucky, he got to hear her singing along to a favorite song on the radio while she cooked or cleaned, or singing lullabies to him when she wanted him to go to bed.

But tonight, she was too drained to read to him, and she didn't sing, either. Yuri helped clean up, taking the dishes to her, sweeping the floor, until she started to get snappish, and he retreated to go play on his own for a while. Ms. Lion, a soft plushie he'd had for longer than he could remember, and Mr. Tiger, who Grandma had given to him on his birthday, went on an adventure in the jungle together, marching around the floor and up onto the couch, discovering cool new places and deciding cool new names for them.

Mama was a lot more relaxed when she came out to put him to bed. "Come on, let's get the three of you to bed," she said with a little laugh, her words coming out a bit oddly. She tucked him in and stroked his hair, and she didn't sing, but she did tell him that she was going to make sure she was never late picking him up again before turning off the light and going back to the kitchen.

The next day was Saturday, which meant that Yuri was going to stay with his grandparents. Mama sleepily heated some frozen syrniki on the stove and let Yuri put big heaps of jam on his, and then she bundled him up and made him pack his backpack for the weekend.

Mama worked on weekends. She said that she wished she could stay and play with him instead, but that she needed the money it gave her and money was what let them stay in their apartment and have food and clothes and everything else they needed. Sometimes it seemed like Mama did everything for work; they'd even moved to this apartment instead of continuing to live with his grandparents because of work.

But while Yuri loved Mama, he also loved his grandparents, so he didn't mind this part too much. Mama took him all the way to their apartment, which was also small, but also warmer and better, somehow, and talked to Grandpa for a few moments, before she hugged him good-bye.

"Will you come see me skate tomorrow?" he asked.

"If I can," she said, and then she was leaving. Yuri felt sad, even though she'd said that she would try. Mama often failed to show up at his lessons when she'd said she would. But it probably wasn't her fault. She was going to try.

The first thing Yuri did was pull out Mr. Tiger and hop up beside Grandma on the couch. Grandma was tiny and slim, but not frail. She'd been a ballet dancer, long ago, she said, when she was a young girl. Yuri couldn't imagine her as a young girl – it seemed to him that she'd been grandma-like forever – but there were pictures of her on the wall in soft tutus, hair done up in perfect buns. She couldn't dance like that anymore, but sometimes she showed him a little and helped him copy her.

Grandma and Grandpa always had time to read to him. They took him to the library once in a while, and more often to the park, where Yuri ran around while they watched from a bench, or played ball with Grandpa. In the evenings, whenever Yuri stayed with them, Grandpa always let Yuri watch him make his delicious pirozhki if they didn't have any left.

And most importantly: Grandpa always made sure to take him to his skating lessons, even on weekdays when Mama couldn't, and a lot of the time he would stay and watch, too. Yuri loved skating, but he liked showing off how well he could skate almost as much. His instructor said he was really talented, that if he kept improving like he was, maybe he could start skating with the older kids soon. Yuri didn't need to hear that to know that he was good – he didn't fall as much as the other kids, and he went faster, and he was better at moving around the ice – but he was glad to know that she recognized it.

"Why don't we go to the park today?" Grandma suggested when he'd finished telling her all the awesome things he'd done at school that week. "And then we can come play at home and make sure you're full of pirozhki so you're ready for your lesson tomorrow."

Yuri already knew what he wanted to play. He beamed at her, holding Mr. Tiger tightly, and nodded. She ruffled his short hair with a smile. "I'll get Grandpa," he chirped, and jumped up to go do so, ready for a long, fun weekend with the two of them.

~!~

When he was in first grade, Yuri started to spend more time with his grandparents. Mama couldn't pick him up after school because she had work, and she said it was far too dangerous for him to walk even the ten minutes from his school to their apartment by himself. So depending on what day it was, either Grandma or Grandpa would come pick him up and take him home or to their place instead.

They always made him do his homework while they made him a hot lunch, which wasn't fun, but at least Yuri could usually get through it quickly. Both of them said that he was smart. He was already really good at reading, and putting numbers together wasn't that hard, either.

And then he got good food as a reward, and then he got to do something more interesting. His favorite days were the ones with skating lessons, of course, and even when he didn't have them, sometimes he liked to pretend. Some day he was going to be like the skaters he saw on TV: he was going to zoom around in cool costumes and do really fast spins and big jumps, and he would have a signature move and everything. Maybe one of the ones that looked like a ballet position because then Grandma would look at it and be happy and everyone else would think it made him look more beautiful than all the skaters who didn't do them.

Mama didn't usually say much when he talked about it, only gave him a tired smile. But Grandma and Grandpa believed him. They said that if he worked really really hard and went to all his lessons, he could do it. (Grandma also said that he should do ballet so he _could_ do all the pretty positions, but Mama had said no. Yuri bet he just had to bug her some more.)

Then there was the day when Grandma was supposed to come get him from school, and she got sick. Mama did come pick him up – Yuri knew he could have walked by himself, but he stopped whining about it when she snapped at him to shut up. She looked really angry. It couldn't be his fault, could it?

"I'll be home from work a bit late," she said, trying to rush through getting the key in their lock. She swore under her breath when she missed. "But I promise I'll get back in time to make you dinner, okay? You can have leftovers from last night for lunch. Good-bye, be good."

"I will," he chimed – he was always good – and he got a brief hug, and then the door was shut, and he was alone.

Yuri couldn't remember being alone for a whole afternoon before. It meant he couldn't go to the park, because he didn't have a key, or anyone to take him, and he didn't have skating tonight, but maybe it would be fun. Nobody telling him what to do. He perked up. Yeah, that sounded great.

For once, he didn't have to do his homework right away!

Yuri had his lunch _first_ , and though the leftovers weren't as good as a freshly-made meal, they were okay. Then he wandered past his schoolbag with his homework still inside, waiting for him to complete it, to sit in front of the TV instead.

He watched for a while, then eventually got up to at least bring his homework over so he could pretend to have been working on it when Mama came home. It was already dark outside when some mindless scrolling through channels brought him on skating. Yuri sat back on his heels; he'd come in halfway through some girl's program as she came out of a spin and started to prance across the ice like it was a dance floor, her costume glittering. And then she got her score, and then the announcer said that the men would be up next, making Yuri sit up straighter.

He grabbed Ms. Lion and Mr. Tiger so they could watch together and curled up with a blanket and his homework. Whenever they cut away from the skaters, or whoever was skating was boring, he did another problem. There wasn't that much homework today, so he was done halfway through the break between the groups.

When the _best_ skater came on, he picked up both his plushies to squeeze them and move closer to the TV. Victor Nikiforov, age 18, representing Russia. Yuri had seen him skate a few times before. Victor didn't skate like anyone else did, not quite, and he stood out visually, too: with his long hair and slim build and pretty costumes, he looked like a fairy. He reminded Yuri, a very little bit, of an old picture of his grandma, her hair down, in a dancer pose but wearing an ordinary dress.

Victor wasn't in first place – the announcers kept saying he'd fallen before – but Yuri told his plushies, "He's gonna win."

Victor smiled and settled into his opening pose. The text that flashed on the screen said that his music was from Swan Lake. Yuri knew Swan Lake because Grandma had danced in it. It was a ballet. He'd never heard the music from it, but it sounded nice when it started to play.

Victor certainly moved like he had ballet training, everything smooth and graceful, and then he would hit his jumps and go high. Yuri was enchanted. He wanted to move like that, like the ice was just something he was floating on top of, like gravity didn't hold him back.

He jumped up as soon as the program was done, suddenly too full of energy to sit still. He flitted back and forth across the floor, pretending he was on the ice, making up a routine and faking everything he couldn't do on the rug, like spins. The kitchen floor was nice and slippery, though – oh, they were cutting to an interview with Victor, so he plopped back down for a few moments. Yuri had barely noticed the last person to go. (Victor had won, just as Yuri had known he would.)

As he practiced spinning as well as he could in the kitchen, Yuri daydreamed that when he was old enough to skate at competitions like that, he'd get to meet Victor. No, no. Victor was a lot older than him. Maybe he'd be retired by then. He'd see how talented Yuri was and coach him. Or if he wasn't retired, he'd tell his coach to teach him, the one who was older than Grandpa, and they'd skate together all the time, and Victor would help him and see how great he was.

A little dizzy, Yuri came to a stop and looked at the clock. It was an hour and a half past when they usually had dinner. He was hungry. But Mama wasn't home yet.

But he was hungry.

He wasn't allowed to use the stove, and he didn't know if she would be able to tell somehow, so he stuck to rooting around in the fridge. There was enough bread and sliced cheese to make a sandwich. He liked sandwiches. The one he made was cold and not as good as the ones Mama made, but it filled his stomach.

Mama still wasn't home.

Be good, she'd said. So Yuri washed his plate and cup, and put away the dry dishes. There was a bottle in one of the cupboards where it shouldn't be; it was the stuff Mama drank at night that he wasn't allowed to have. But she wasn't here. Curious, Yuri poured himself a little bit and tried a sip.

It tasted like the alcohol in cough spray and nothing else. It was awful. Yuri spit it out into the sink, rinsed his mouth, and made a face as he put the bottle back where it was supposed to be. How did she drink that it? Grown-ups were weird.

Mama still wasn't home.

Yuri had noticed that when Mama said, "I promise", it was different from when other people said it. When Grandpa said, "I promise we can have pirozhki later," they made pirozhki. When Grandma said, "I promise you can have dessert if you finish everything on your plate," she gave him dessert when he at least tried to eat all of his dinner. When his friend said, "I promise you can go next," then Yuri got to go next (and if he didn't, then at least he was on the right side in the resulting fight).

When Mama said, "I promise I'll come watch you skate today," she didn't ever come. When she said, "I promise I'll make whatever you want for dinner," sometimes she did, but sometimes she would say she was too tired to cook when they got home, and would get mad at him if he was upset over what she gave him instead. When she said, "I promise we'll go to the zoo some day," well, it might still happen, but she never set a date when he asked her about it.

He knew it wasn't always her fault, but it still hurt when she was never there to see him skate. At least Grandpa stayed to watch him and didn't wander off during his lessons like some of the parents.

And she still wasn't home.

Yuri went to get his favorite picture book and took it into the living room. He placed his homework on the little table next to the couch so he could show Mama right away when she got back, then climbed up next to it and started to go through the book. It was about a tigress going on an adventure to find her friend, and meeting all kinds of other cats along the way – Yuri had never known there were so many before seeing them in the book for the first time. He liked to stare at the pictures of the leopards and the panthers and the funny-looking caracals, all of them different but not that different.

He'd learned to read the book to himself after three nights in a row that Mama wouldn't. He knew the story by heart, page by page, and somehow, saying it to himself, looking at the words, knowing how the letters should be pronounced, everything just _clicked_ , and then it was like he could read for real. That was why he was good at reading. The kids in his class who couldn't read that well probably just didn't have a cool book like his that they had picked it up from, or they weren't smart enough to figure it out.

He hadn't even realized that he'd fallen asleep when he was being shaken awake. "Oh, honey, were you waiting up for me?" Mama asked. She looked very tired. "Did you get something to eat?"

Yuri yawned, and then he nodded. "And I washed the dishes." He showed her his homework, too, and she smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

"I'm sorry I made you wait so long." She scooped him up. "Let's get you into bed proper, hm? Good rest for good little boys."

He kept a hold on his book. "Read to me first."

There was a long pause, but then she said, "Okay."

She tucked him in, and Yuri fell asleep to the sound of her pretty voice telling him about the tigress asking cat after cat if they had seen her friend.

~!~

By the time Yuri started second grade, he had his ballet lessons. It was a lot harder than skating, and not as fun, and he always felt like he was catching up to the kids who had started younger than him, and he didn't really like his teacher. But it would help him skate better, and it made Grandma happy when he showed off for her. Sometimes she would help correct his positions, too.

Second grade was also when he had his first fight with Mom.

Mom was already in a bad mood when she came home that day. She was short with Grandpa, who didn't deserve being snipped at, which already had Yuri's hackles up, and then she went straight for the kitchen. Yuri winced to hear the sound of glass slamming on the counter, even though she'd only just come back. Usually, she waited to drink until after dinner.

Yuri stayed in the living room while she called one of her friends and proceeded to complain for what felt like forever about work and her boss. If he got close to the TV and turned the volume up a bit, he couldn't hear her that clearly, and if he held Mr. Tiger and stroked his fake fur, her loud voice set him less on edge.

When she finally hung up, Yuri waited a minute before turning off the TV and going over. She was sitting at the table, an empty glass in front of her, holding her head in her hands so her fine blonde hair hung over her face. "Mom?" he prompted when she didn't look up. "I'm hungry."

"Make yourself something, Yura," she said, not looking at him. "I'm not up for it tonight."

But he wanted something hot, and he still wasn't allowed to use the stove, and she'd _promised_ — "Mom," he whined, coming closer and grabbing her arm.

"I said make yourself something," she snapped, suddenly sitting up enough to refill her glass. "I had a terrible day at work and you're old enough to—"

Yuri felt something flare up inside of him, anger that he wasn't getting what he wanted and anger that she was talking like that to him and anger that he'd been waiting for ages and she wouldn't even consider _making dinner_ , which was the thing parents were supposed to do.

He couldn't help himself. He didn't even think about it. He grabbed the glass out of her hand, turned, and hurled it at the wall. The sound it made was extremely satisfying, a kind of slow-motion _clink_ and the smaller sound of the pieces bouncing everywhere as the alcohol splashed to the floor in a big, clear puddle.

It felt really, really good.

Mom gaped at him.

"I'm hungry and it's late and you promised that you were going to make something good tonight!" he screamed at her. The screaming felt good, too, the way it scratched his throat, the way it sounded in their tiny kitchen. "You _promised_."

"Do not," she breathed, and then she was standing up, so much taller than him. "Do _not_ do that Yura. Do you understand me? That is – that is a very bad thing. You don't ever do that again."

He glared up at her, not saying anything. He still felt enraged, so mad that his hands were shaking when he formed them into fists.

Mom growled at him and grabbed his shoulder. "Do you understand me?" she yelled, and then she started to pull him from the room.

He dug his heels in, protesting, but she was stronger. She took him to the bedroom and told him that he was not to leave it or else, and then slammed the door and left before he could even ask anything. Like _or else_ what, or if he was going to get something to eat, or if she was going to yell at him if he needed to use the bathroom.

Trembling, he curled up at the head of the bed. Mr. Tiger was still in the living room, but at least Ms. Lion was here, and he had his books. And after a while, Mom brought him some dinner, although she didn't come to tuck him in that night, and she was still extremely grumpy the next day.

When Grandma took him to the park that Saturday, she didn't let him run off like she normally did. Instead, she steered him towards her favorite bench and made him sit down with her. "Yurochka," she said, and Yuri internally winced; he didn't hear it often, but her scolding tone wasn't hard to miss. "We heard from your mother that you threw a glass this week."

"It wasn't at her," he grumbled, not quite looking at her.

She waited. Yuri was stubborn enough to out-wait her, even if he felt kind of bad about it. "You shouldn't do things like that," she finally said, disappointment dripping from her voice, and Yuri bit his lip.

"I just wanted her to make dinner!" he exploded. "I was hungry, and she was on the phone, and then she was drinking, and she told me to – but I didn't know how – and then she yelled at me – and, and—" His throat closed up. He didn't know how to explain what had happened well enough.

Grandma sighed and put an arm around his shoulders, let him push into her warmth. "That sounds upsetting," she said, and something in him relaxed, to know that she thought it was unfair, too. "But you can't break things just because someone made you mad. Hm? What else could you have done, Yurochka? You could have called Grandpa. Don't you think he would have brought you dinner if you were hungry? Do you think we would ever, ever let you starve?"

Yuri hadn't thought of that. "But it was late," he mumbled. "What if you were sleeping?"

"I promise we would come anyway." She kissed his hair. "Okay? We love you very much. Now let's see, maybe you also could have told your mother...."

He didn't think talking to Mom would have helped anything. Not when she was in a mood like that. But he let Grandma talk and focused on how warm she was instead. Eventually, she let him go and he went off to play, and when they went home he heard her murmuring with Grandpa, but that seemed to be the end of that.

Not even a month later, Mom got a new job, and they moved back in with his grandparents. Yuri hated having to pack – it was so boring and it took forever and there were boxes everywhere in their little apartment that Mom and Grandpa had to stack into Grandpa's even littler car. But he liked living with Grandma and Grandpa again.

Mom seemed to like her new job better, too. She didn't get angry as often, and she was home more. She still couldn't come to his skating lessons, but she did smile when she saw Yuri practicing ballet moves with Grandma. "You're already so much better than I ever was," she told him.

"You did ballet, too?" She'd never said.

"Only for a little while. I begged and begged Grandma to quit at some point. You're much more talented at it than I am. I put all my effort into singing, instead."

She sang to him more often at night now, too. Yuri beamed at her and did the biggest grand jeté he could in the space of the living room.

~!~

Over the next couple of years, Mom seemed less and less happy, and she was around less and less often. She started disappearing for days at time, and sometimes she would mention that she was auditioning for a singing job of some kind and sometimes Yuri would wake up and she would just be gone.

He never had to ask if it went well. Usually, it didn't, and when Mom showed up again, and if it hadn't, she would be up all night drinking. Not like Grandpa with his one beer after a hard day of work, or Grandma with the glass of wine on special occasions that she would let him take a sip from (it didn't taste that good, but it made him feel grown-up).

On those nights, Yuri would shut himself in their shared bedroom and do homework or ballet stretches. Mom got really unhappy when she drank. Yuri didn't like it, not a bit, but his grandparents got sad and disappointed in him if he argued with her or started a shouting match because she'd forgotten something important.

She drank on the odd occasion when her auditions or networking or whatever worked out, too. Not as much, at least, and not as early. She would get in a few questions to Yuri about how his week had been, first. Still, the only good thing about those days was that she would sing for him for a bit if he asked.

Yuri slowly stopped being so upset when she left. He didn't need her. His grandparents were always there, and he was busy. Skating took up more of his time as he got better at it; Grandpa couldn't have stayed for all of his practices if he wanted to. His coach said he had a real talent, that he could train with a top coach, that the state would give him money to live on if he turned out to be good enough. Yuri just needed to get in, and so he went to the rink even on days that he didn't want to, even when it felt like he had to drag his whole body in, even when it meant not being able to make plans with his few friends at school.

One warm early-fall evening, when Yuri was nine, he came home to find that Mom had come back after nearly three weeks away at whatever it had been this time. (He didn't see why she couldn't just get a job like a normal person if this singing thing was going to take so much time and effort, no matter how nice her voice was.) She was chattering away with his grandparents in the kitchen, sounding excited. He hung back, listening from behind the doorway.

"I think this might finally be it!" Her voice was giggly in a way that it rarely was. "Getting back into the business is so hard. Ah, sometimes I wish I hadn't had Yura."

Yuri froze. "Really," he heard Grandma chide.

"Not like – not that I don't love him, of course I do, but it would have been so much easier for both of us if I'd waited a few years—"

Yuri wanted to scream. But his grandparents were right there. They wouldn't stand for it. And he wanted to break something. But this was their apartment. He couldn't – he couldn't.

But he couldn't keep standing here, thinking about what she had said on repeat, _I wish I hadn't had him_ like she didn't want him, like all he'd ever done was cost her money and take away from her precious singing career and—

There was one thing in the world that it was absolutely impossible to be angry around, even moreso than his grandparents. Yuri turned around, left the apartment as quietly as he could, and went down the stairs and out the back of the building.

Oh, good. There she was. He didn't even have to say her name; the little cat, which according to his book on cat breeds, was a colorpoint ragdoll, was sitting right there, licking her paw. As soon as she saw Yuri, though, she abandoned her grooming to come over and say hello.

"Hi," he said softly, crouching down to hold his hand out. "Hi, Potya."

She butted her head against his fingers. He sat down on the cleanest piece of concrete he could see and scooped her up into his lap. She settled down and soon started to purr. Listening to the steady rumble, feeling her warm body, stroking her soft fur, all of it drained his anger until it was like it had never been there. He scratched her on her neck where she liked it best and settled down himself with a sigh.

Yuri had first seen the kitten wandering around the apartment building a few months ago. He couldn't bear to leave her as a stray, even though she'd been scared at first, and wouldn't let him anywhere near. He'd started to steal bits of fish and other meat from the fridge to leave out for her, and waited patiently for her to eat closer and closer to him, with less and less fear evident in her body language.

At some point she'd seemed to recognize that he provided the food. Yuri thought she was pretty smart. And then she'd learned that he would give her affection, too, and now she would crawl into his lap. He'd read on the internet that he could teach her to fetch; he hadn't tried it yet, but he bet she would pick it up fast.

His grandparents and Mom didn't know about her yet. Yuri wanted so badly to bring her inside and show them. She would be a good cat. They would fall in love with her just as Yuri had. But he had wanted to wait until she wasn't scared, first, to make sure they would agree to let him keep her. To show he was being responsible and everything.

She turned around in his lap. Yuri ran his fingers down her side, marveling at how soft she could keep her long fur. He brushed it when he got the chance. He didn't want it becoming matted. Potya liked combing almost as much as petting, probably because he was gentle and went slowly so it wouldn't hurt if the comb caught on a tangle.

Yuri liked taking care of her. He liked having this secret, too, this kitten that only seemed to exist for him, almost as much as he wanted to take her inside and make her safe and warm.

Maybe now was a good time. Winter was coming up quickly, and Mom was in a good mood, and Potya wasn't scared of humans anymore.

But of course, that would have to wait until she was no longer cuddled in his lap, purring loudly, so warm and content that he couldn't bear to move her.

A long time passed. Yuri stroked Potya's fur and marveled at her, and thought about skating. He ran through the new jump he was having trouble with in his head, over and over, like he was actually doing it. He'd read somewhere that it helped, that it was nearly as good in some ways as actual practice, and he only had so much time on the ice.

He was so engrossed in Potya and his own thoughts that he didn't notice it getting darker outside until the nearby door slammed open. "Yura," Mom called, and when she saw him, her lip curled. "Put down that filthy cat and come inside, it's time for dinner."

Huh. It turned out he could get kind of angry even when he was holding Potya. Not as much as he usually might have, but it was still there.

He stood slowly, carefully, trying not to dislodge Potya too much from his arms. She didn't seem to mind, although her purr tapered off. "She's not dirty," he said. "She's my friend."

"Either way. Drop it and get inside. Don't make me repeat myself again." When he didn't move – he was trying to control his breathing, trying to think of what he should say – she snapped, "Yura!" and started to advance on him in long strides.

He backed away. Potya suddenly stiffened and buried her head against him. "You're scaring her," he hissed, not wanting to raise his voice and make it worse. "Mom, come on, she's a nice cat—"

"It's a stray, let go of it, what's into you tonight – just because it's a cat—"

"What's going on?" Grandma asked from the doorway, peering at them over her glasses. "Yurochka, whose cat is that?"

"It's just a stray," Mom started to say, but Yuri held Potya close and talked over her.

"She's mine!" When both of them stared at him – Mom in clear disbelief, Grandma in confusion – he swallowed and kept going. "I – she doesn't have a home, so I've been taking care of her. Since June. I fed her and combed her – she'd not _dirty_ – and she likes me and I want to keep her."

Mom put her hand to her forehead, mumbled something that sounded a lot like _can't afford_ or maybe a couple of curse words. Grandma didn't look too enthused, either.

Yuri ducked his head. Were they going to say no? He'd had all these arguments planned out, but he couldn't remember any of them right now. He could feel a burning in his eyes, moisture collecting, but he wasn't going to cry. He squeezed Potya until she let out a pitiful little squeak and he had to let go for fear that she was hurting her, though she didn't jump down.

Mom and Grandma muttered together for a moment, words Yuri couldn't hear over the beating of his heart, and then there was a hand in his hair. "Yurochka," Grandma said, and he looked up at her. Not so far up as it had been, once. "May I see her?"

He was afraid that Potya would be scared, but now that Mom wasn't advancing on them looking all scary, she seemed more curious than anything. She sniffed at Grandma's hand for a while, and turned into her hand when she scratched her neck. "She's a good cat," he said. "She used to be terrified, but I – I showed her that humans aren't scary, and now she likes them."

"Since June? You've been hiding her for – three months? Goodness, we had no idea."

That didn't sound like a no. "She's really smart, too. I know she is. And she's just a little cat. Please, Grandma."

"Well," she said. Behind her, Mom huffed impatiently. "Why don't we go show her to your Grandpa and ask him, hm? But as you said, she's a little cat, and I can tell you love her very much already. I don't see why we can't keep her."

"Really?" He grinned so much his face hurt. "Thank you, thank you!" He would have jumped to hug her, but, well, Potya.

"Does she have a name?"

He'd spent so long deciding on a good name, even before she'd let him very near her. "Puma Tiger Scorpion," he announced proudly. "But Potya for short."

Mom tipped her face heavenward. Grandma covered her smile for a moment. "Alright," she said, and she put a hand on his upper back to encourage him in. "Let's go show him before dinner gets cold."

Potya stayed calm in his arms the whole way up to the apartment. Yuri almost couldn't believe it, that she was finally coming to stay with him – surely Grandpa wouldn't say no, and even Mom seemed less unhappy about it than she'd been a minute ago. She tentatively reached out to scratch Potya's head as they waited by the door while Grandma fetched Grandpa. "I thought she was dirty, but it's just the color of her fur, isn't it? It seems that she's actually a pretty cat."

Yuri didn't forgive her for insulting Potya yet, but he did let her run her long nails down Potya's head a couple of times. And then Grandpa was there, and Yuri had to explain the whole thing again and promise that yes, he could take care of a cat, he'd already been – and then Potya jumped out of his arms, apparently fed up with all the attention, and wandered off to go look out the windows. She looked exactly like she belonged there.

Mom and Grandma went to go eat, but Yuri lingered to watch Potya and make sure she looked like she was doing okay.

"You keep saying she," Grandpa said. "Isn't Potya more like a boy's name?"

"I thought she was a boy at first," Yuri admitted. "But when I figured it out, I didn't want her to get confused about her name." And also he was already used to it. Hesitantly, he added, "Should I change it?"

"You can call her whatever you wish." Grandpa smiled at him. "She's your cat, isn't she?"

"Yeah." Yuri grinned back. She was, she was, she was. Officially, now. "I like her name the way it is."

After, dinner, Grandpa helped him find an old box and line it with rags, and Yuri wrote her full name on the side, and now she had a bed. When Yuri went to bed, though, Potya followed him and hopped up to sleep next to him. Yuri already knew that she was the best cat in the world, but that only confirmed it.

"Really, Yura," Mom murmured. "Well, you like cats so much, I suppose it was inevitable that you would end up with one." She smoothed the covers down over his shoulders. "Make sure you take good care of her. I don't want to hear that your grandparents are having to pick up after her."

"I will," he promised. He thought it was pretty obvious that he could – he'd done so much to earn Potya's trust already, done what he could for her outside. It hurt that Mom was talking like he was some irresponsible little kid.

Potya adapted well to an indoor life – she didn't seem interested in going out again even when she had the chance – and Yuri did everything just like he'd read about. He combed her every day so she wouldn't shed quite as much (though it seemed like his black shirts were a lost cause), and cleaned out her litter box every night, and fed her before he ran off to skating practice in the mornings. He taught her how to play fetch, and soon she was coming up to him whenever she wanted to play, with the little toys that Grandma made her from scraps of fabric held in her mouth. She hardly seemed to tire of it; sometimes Grandpa, or Mom when she was around, would take over the game in order to make him go do his homework instead of playing with Potya half the night.

Just as he had known they would, his grandparents fell in love with her, too. Potya would come running when he arrived home, and followed him around the apartment, but he saw her curling up next to Grandma when she worked on darning and on mending the ripped seams on Yuri's clothes, and Grandpa slipping her tiny scraps of meat on occasion. (They did have to teach her not to climb on the counters when they were making dinner, lest she start trying to eat their food or clamber onto the stove. Yuri might have felt bad for yelling at her, but she never actually seemed to mind.)

In short, she was a very good companion and a very good cat, and the next time Mom vanished for weeks on end, Yuri found that between skating and his grandparents and Potya, he hardly missed her at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Yuri moved to Saint Petersburg when he was ten.

Finally, his talent was being noticed. Yuri's head almost swam with happiness for a while; state money – that would help out his family so much, especially now that Mom was working so inconsistently – and a new coach. Not just _any_ coach, either. The same Yakov Feltsman who had been teaching _Victor Nikiforov_ since he was a kid thought Yuri had the same shine to him. Yuri couldn't wait.

Grandpa was the one who helped him figure out all of the specifics. He helped chase down Mom when they needed her to sign something. He found a homestay program for Yuri, and got everything worked out for Yuri to change to a new school. And in the early summer, he was the one to take Yuri all the way from Moscow.

Yuri put off packing till the last minute – it was boring – but when he finally sat down to throw everything in his suitcase, Grandma came in and tutted at his system. "Everything will get wrinkles," she said, and Yuri didn't care if his clothes had wrinkles, but if it made her feel better to take an extra few seconds to fold everything properly, he could live with it. "And don't forget these two," she said at the end of the night, handing him Mr. Tiger and Ms. Lion.

Yuri had actually been planning on leaving them behind. He wasn't a kid; he didn't need his stuffed toys anymore. And they were both getting kind of old and worn from being dragged all over the place, thrown about, and occasionally chewed on. But Grandma was giving him that smile, the one that made him feel squishy inside, and instead of saying, "I don't need them," like he'd meant to, what came out was a mumbled thanks, and he tucked them in between his clothes.

The next morning, Grandma gave him a long hug before they left – she had work and couldn't come, but she made him promise to call home once in a while. (Mom wasn't there. Of course she wasn't. He didn't need her to be.)

The trip was long and far and he worried about Potya the whole time, but she seemed calm enough when they finally arrived at their hotel and he let her out of the carrier. She ate her food like normal, begged to play fetch with a crumpled scrap of hotel paper, and slept on his feet when he went to bed.

They met his host family the next day. They seemed fine; one mom, one dad, one son a year younger than Yuri but half a head taller. They liked cats, and Potya seemed to like them once she'd had a few minutes to figure out that she was in a safe place again. The family lived near his new school for next year, and more importantly, they lived near the rink.

Yuri was sure that he could have figured everything else out on his own – that was what the internet was for – but his host parents insisted on showing him around the area, and Grandpa at least seemed relieved about that.

"I know you'll make us proud," Grandpa said when it was finally time to say good-bye. Yuri didn't want to let go of him. "You're talented, but it's not just that, Yurochka. You're not going to waste that talent of yours."

"I know," Yuri mumbled into his shoulder. "I'll become real strong, I promise. Stronger and better than anyone else."

Grandpa patted his hair, and then Yuri had to release him, and then they were waving good-bye, and then Grandpa was gone.

He wasn't alone, but it soon felt like it was just Potya and him. His host family kept asking him questions – especially the son – about what did he like to eat and was there anything he wanted to do in the city and was there anything he needed. Yuri, once he had unpacked into his part of the bedroom he was going to share, wanted nothing more than to lie down for a little while and get some peace and quiet. He knew they were trying to be nice; it didn't make the questions any less annoying.

Thankfully, he only had to endure that for a couple of days. Potya discovered a high shelf by a window to look out of, and Yuri discovered that while his host parents couldn't cook like his grandparents, their food was more than serviceable. Their son was kind of annoying, but after a couple of death glares when he interrupted Yuri, he seemed to understand that they were not going to be instant best friends.

So that was all fine. Which was good, because once Yakov's summer training camp started, Yuri didn't have the ability to concentrate on anything else.

From the beginning, it felt like he was behind. Not so far that he couldn't catch up, but – Yuri was used to being the best among people his age at his home rink, and here was a different story. Here were kids who had never worried about paying for lessons, who had taken ballet lessons earlier and had better coaches and had whatever natural talent they had, and believed just as much as Yuri did that they were the best.

He had to prove them wrong. It didn't matter how much he hated the repetition of practice or how exhausted he was when he got back each day. He _had_ to keep Yakov convinced that he was worth his time, had to keep moving forward.

So he swallowed his natural urge to complain. He stayed quiet during ballet class and did extra stretching at home; he didn't say a word when he was bored or tired. He didn't focus on anyone else, not the foreign kids struggling even more than him and not the ones who might be his competition in a few years, except to pick out their strong points and try to do even better.

And at the end of the camp, Yuri was the one who stayed when everyone else scattered back to wherever they normally trained. He could feel that he was much better than he'd been at the start of the summer already; the competition pressing in all around him had helped, and then he'd risen above it.

Yakov introduced him properly to his new rinkmates: Mila, who chirped at him and ruffled his hair, and Georgi, who smiled at him with too much eyeliner on.

He didn't introduce Victor. Victor probably never had to be introduced to anyone. Instead he called Victor over, put his hand on Yuri's shoulder, and said, "This is Yuri Plisetsky. He'll be training here from now on."

Yuri's heart jumped. He'd seen Victor around, but this was the first time they'd actually spoken, and – quick, he had to seem cool and natural, not like an over-excited kid meeting their idol for the first time.

So he stuck out his hand (what else was he supposed to do?). Victor took it with a smile. "Hi, Yuri! Welcome to our rink. Don't let Yakov scare you off, I promise he only yells out of love."

"I yell because you never listen if I don't," Yakov grumbled. "Now, did you figure out what was wrong with your choreography yet?"

"Nnno," Victor said, sliding his hands behind his back. "But maybe if I took a break to show our cute new rinkmate around—"

"He already knows his way around. Get back to work, Vitya." The words were said gruffly. If there was any hint of fondness in there, Yuri didn't know how to hear it. But Victor laughed and skated away.

That... hadn't been what he was expecting. Yuri tried not to feel too disappointed. Victor was busy. Yuri hadn't proven himself yet. He couldn't read too much into it, could he?

With Mila and Georgi, his initial impressions turned out to be fairly correct. Mila was always cheerful and liked to tease, although when school started up, sometimes she invited herself over to study together despite the fact that she was three years ahead of him. Georgi was sweet but over-shared about his romantic life at every opportunity.

Victor was – well. He wasn't the Victor on the screen and in the interviews. He whined about practicing sometimes; he pouted and told Yakov he was being mean before sweeping out to do run-throughs of his routines that would have won gold. He liked to show off pictures of his dog too much. He chattered with Georgi about romance novels and teased Mila right back, and sometimes he would give Yuri advice and sometimes he would ignore him entirely and sometimes he would watch him practice with an unreadable look on his face.

In short: he was both infuriating and way more likable than he would have been otherwise. Yuri told himself that he didn't desperately want his attention, but at the same time, whenever he felt those eyes on him, he showed off a bit more than usual.

"Wait," his host family's son said one night at dinner. "You're training with Victor Nikiforov? _The_ Victor Nikiforov?"

"Yeah?"

"What's he _like_?" He leaned forward, all wide-eyed and breathless.

Yuri shrugged. "He's okay."

"Wow. Does he teach you jumps and stuff?"

"He's my rinkmate, not my coach."

He opened his mouth again. "Three questions at a time is enough," his host mother said. "Eat your dinner, okay?"

His host parents seemed to have picked up on the fact that he didn't want to spill his entire life story to them. They cooked him dinner and made him clean up his part of the room when it got too messy, and it wasn't anything like living at home, but it was okay.

He missed his grandparents, though. He'd been so busy that he'd forgotten to call, he realized. So he slipped outside after dinner and called them, trying not to wish he could feel their arms settling around his shoulders. Their voices would do.

~!~

Under Yakov's instruction, Yuri did amazingly well, just as he'd known he could. His skating got better and better; he learned how to jump quad Salchows, to Yakov's horror; and going into his first year as a Junior, was prepared to crush the competition and get Victor's fantastic choreography for his Senior debut in a couple of years.

One afternoon, in the early summer, Yuri thought he'd just done a pretty good run-through of his routine, but when he skated to the boards, Yakov was frowning down at Yuri's phone. He kept it on silent during practice, but maybe it had turned itself on? "Your grandfather's called five times in a row," Yakov informed him. The screen lit up again. "See what it is."

What on earth...? His grandparents never called him during practice, so it had to be important. Yuri answered the call and slumped against the boards. Yakov gave him some space and turned to shout at someone else. "Hello?"

"Yurochka," Grandpa breathed, and just hearing his voice sent Yuri's heart plummeting in his chest. He couldn't remember ever hearing him sound like that. Scratchy. Hesitant. _Sad_. "I'm sorry, are you at practice?"

"Yeah, but it's fine. I was taking a break anyway." What could it be? Yuri twisted his spare hand in the hem of his shirt, mind running through all kinds of terrible possibilities. "What happened?"

On the other end, Grandpa sighed. "I'm afraid Grandma is very sick," he said, and oh god, Yuri felt like he wanted to throw up, she couldn't be— "She's at the hospital right now, but the doctors said it could be serious." His voice had a little hitch in it. "They aren't sure what's going to happen."

"Should I come home?"

Pause. "Yes," Grandpa said. Not _if you aren't too busy_. Not _when it fits into your schedule_. Just _yes_.

Yuri tried not to panic. "Okay," he said, and then after a few more words, he hung up. Stared at his phone. Tried to understand what had just happened.

"What is it?" Yakov asked, suddenly next to him, though Yuri hadn't noticed. His voice had gone lower, softer than usual, too. "Is it an emergency?"

"I – I, my," words, right, "My grandma might be dying."

Yakov stared at him for a long moment. "Then why are you still on the ice?" he snapped. Yuri jumped, surprised – Yakov yelled at Georgi for getting too mopey after breakups, told Victor to knock it off when he started wondering how Makkachin was doing without him before they'd even left Russia – but, right, Yakov wasn't _actually_ mean under all the shouting. Yuri hastened to the side of the rink and needed a couple of tries to get his skate guards on.

The person who handed him the second one wasn't Yakov. Yuri blinked when he realized it, looked up, and saw Victor there instead. "Are you feeling alright?" Victor asked.

"Family emergency," Yakov answered for him.

"Oh." Something in his face softened. "I can take you to the airport."

"I can get there on my own."

"I'm sure you can," Victor said, "but just in case."

Whatever, he wasn't going to stand around and argue. Yuri ran off to the take the quickest shower of his life and change back into street clothes, and when he was done he found Victor frowning at his phone.

"Yura, what's your birth date?"

"What?"

"I found you a flight, though we should hurry if you want to make it. It's March something, isn't it?"

Yuri took the phone from him and put in his information himself. His head was too busy going over the short conversation with Grandpa to protest when Victor took it back to enter his own payment details. Whatever, Victor could afford it.

Victor made friends with Potya while Yuri packed; he remembered Grandma folding his clothes neatly for him, and though he usually did just throw everything in his suitcase, for once he took two seconds to fold every piece of clothing before tossing it in. Either way, he was packed in under ten minutes.

On the way to the airport, he texted his host family (his third; the first one eventually decided that he was too 'aggressive' and the second had moved unexpectedly, and the third had no kids, were quiet, and gave Yuri his own room, so that was working out pretty well). They were due to go on a trip in a few days, and he might have to pay them back for cat-sitting. Then he tried to call Grandpa, but he didn't pick up – probably he was at the hospital – and Yuri made a mental note to buy him a cellphone for New Year's or something.

Victor waved him good-bye at the airport, probably with some vague statement of well-wishing, but Yuri didn't even hear. He made it through security, made it to his flight – not with enough time to grab food first, and he was hungry, but he could wait until he made it to Moscow.

Grandpa had always met him at the airport when Yuri came back for a competition or came to visit for the holidays. For once, Yuri had to figure out how to get home on his own, and then how to get from home to the hospital. (He did pause to make himself a sandwich at the apartment, although he barely tasted it.)

Once he was there, and once he'd gotten the lady at the front desk to understand what he was there for and who he was trying to visit, he burst into her ward, terrified of what he might see.

Both Grandma and Grandpa looked up at him (along with a couple of other people in the room, who Yuri barely even noticed). And Grandma was – propped up on a bed, and she was looking at him, and she wasn't dead. She looked kind of sick, but not like she was dying.

"Yurochka, you're here already?" Grandpa asked, and he swept Yuri up into a hug.

Grandma seemed kind of confused and slow, but she was sick; Yuri was never at his sharpest when _he_ got sick, and he'd never even been sick enough for the hospital. And when they came back the next day, she was better; not well enough to leave the hospital, but better. Yuri felt a little foolish to have hurried home like he had, but he didn't mind spending some time with Grandma, talking and reading to her and trying to relieve the boredom of being stuck in a bed all day.

He thought she would get better. She wasn't that old, even if she was his grandmother, and this was the 21st century; they had modern medicine to treat her with.

And then the day after that, she was worse.

And the day after that.

And the next day.

It was scary, to watch Grandma get put through more interventions as time passed.

It was scarier to watch her get worse despite them.

It was terrifying, to creep up beside her when she was struggling to breathe so he could hold her hand. She barely noticed him any more, too exhausted even when she wasn't sleeping, but sometimes she squeezed his fingers a little. He could hear the doctors whispering with Grandpa, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what they were saying. He was pretty sure he got the gist of it just from their faces.

Yuri didn't believe in God, or prayer, or anything, but he still found himself thinking _please let her be okay_ at nothing in particular.

She wasn't.

Yuri had never seen Grandpa cry before. Not really. Not more than a couple of tears of joy, discreetly wiped from his eyes before anyone could notice. He'd never seen Grandpa lean over, put his face in his hands, and sob like he did in the hospital parking lot, after. Yuri didn't know what to do. He didn't know why he wasn't crying. Maybe he was still in shock, like when he hurt himself and the pain took a few seconds to flood in. Numb, he watched from his side of the car.

At home, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. He washed the dishes that had started to pile up. He reheated some soup, even though he wasn't hungry, and he was pretty sure that Grandpa wasn't, either. He thought about going to his old rink. Instead, he curled up in bed and wondered why he wasn't feeling – sadness or grief or anything.

Some of it did kick in by the funeral. It crawled into his chest like the infection must have crawled into hers, left it feeling tight and constricted every time he took a breath. A lot of people showed up. Friends. Co-workers. Distant relatives Yuri had never met and didn't expect to meet again.

Not Mom.

The day after, Yuri made himself go skate. Being at the apartment was driving him crazy – seeing the traces of Grandma left everywhere, like the jacket in her sewing basket that she hadn't finished sewing a button back onto. The ice offered an escape, something to do to get his mind out of himself for a while.

It also offered something else. He thought, as he laced up his skates, about the government funding, and about how money had never been plentiful even with both Grandma and Grandpa working. He had to be more than just good at skating. He _had_ to be the best. Grandpa would never, ever say it, but he needed more income than his job gave him to keep up and stay in their – in his apartment. Yuri was the only one left who could continue to help.

If he was the best at skating, then on top of the government aid, there would be prizes from competitions, money from sponsors, income from ice shows. Enough for him and Potya in Saint Petersburg, when he was old enough to live on his own, and enough for Grandpa, and Mom if she ever bothered showing up again (Grandpa would never have the heart to slam the door in her face, like Yuri would if she came to his doorstep).

He could do it. People were already paying attention to him; it wasn't every twelve-year-old that could land a quad Salchow, and he had solid programs for his Juniors debut. He wouldn't let Grandpa down.

By the time he returned to Saint Petersburg, his host family hadn't just left for their vacation; they were nearly back, and suggested that he stay with a friend for a night so he wouldn't have to come back to an apartment devoid of food. Georgi was out. Mila might have been okay. He ended up texting Victor instead.

Victor picked him up from the airport and didn't ask. It was probably pretty obvious what had happened. He took Yuri to his place, and left him sitting in front of the couch petting his dog while he ran off to take care of laundry or something.

Makkachin wasn't as good as Potya, and she never could be since she was a dog, but Yuri couldn't stop himself from scratching her shoulders anyway. One of his wrists was sore from catching him on a bad jump the other day, and he let go of her to shake it out with a wince.

"Is everything okay?" Victor asked from the other side of the couch, peering down at him.

Yuri didn't know why that did it. Why that was the thing that pierced the numbness that had settled on him days ago, hearing those words. Why that got him to scream and slam his fist into the floor. " _Of fucking course it's not_! What do you think, my grandma is _dead_! Nothing is okay!"

And then, to his own horror, he burst into tears.

Makkachin scampered away. Yuri hid his face in his hands, trying to stop crying, but it didn't work. He sobbed and sobbed, curling up into himself, breath shuddering and tears coming no matter how much he hated it.

At least Victor didn't try to hug and coddle him. He did slide down next to Yuri and put an arm around his shoulders, but that was it. No shushing sounds, no reassuring him that everything was going to be okay, no telling him to let it all out. Yuri would have punched him. The arm was okay.

It took forever to get his stupid body and stupid brain to stop crying. Last time, he'd held his breath until it was back under his control, but when he tried that this time, another sob would burst from him, even harder than before.

But finally, his breath evened out, and the tears stopped leaking from his eyes, although his body didn't stop shaking. When Victor got up and came back with a box of tissues, Yuri's hands were trembling so badly he could hardly take them. He felt awful; his cheeks were sticky with drying tears, there was snot everywhere, and his back hurt from curling up so hard. Crying sucked. He didn't even really feel better, just emptied out.

"Why don't I make tea," Victor said, and thankfully disappeared, letting Yuri have a moment to recollect himself and go wash his face in the bathroom. He didn't look much better than he felt. Even beyond the red eyes and blotchy cheeks, he looked _sad_. Yuri tried to wipe the expression away, but it didn't work, and it made him feel worse, too, so he went back to the living room and tentatively sat on the couch. Victor could deal with looking at his ugly face.

Victor was saying cutesy things to his dog in the kitchen. There was still a pile of tissues on the coffee table. Yuri picked them up for something to do and threw them away.

He still didn't feel better.

Victor came back with tea. Yuri cringed at the awkward silence as he sat back with his mug. Makkachin was the one who helped break it; she came back to sniff at his jeans and poke her head into his hands, looking for attention, before she wandered off.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Victor asked. Yuri shook his head. Even if he did, it wouldn't be with Victor. "I thought so," he said with a forced little laugh. "We could just watch something, if you wanted? Oh, and dinner. We should make that."

Yuri didn't trust his voice quite yet, but he scrambled over to his backpack. His grandpa, even dealing with his own grief, had made sure that he had pirozhki, just like he always did. Yuri should've thanked him better. He pulled the paper bag out and went to sit next to Victor again. He bit into one, tearing up again at the taste, the taste that still reminded him of weekend visits and coming home from practice. Stupid.

There were a lot of pirozhki. Yuri dug out another and offered it to Victor.

"Thanks," he said, taking it slowly.

"My grandpa made them, so you better appreciate it." His voice came out rough and clogged-up. He coughed to help clear it.

Victor took a huge bite and made a pleased sound. "These are really good. He must be an excellent cook."

"Yeah." Yuri nibbled at his own pirozhki. He still didn't have much of an appetite, but he could feel a bit of it coming back for these. "He taught me how to make them, but it's not the same."

"That's because you're missing the special ingredient!"

"Don't you dare say it's love."

"Haha. How about we go with 'experience', instead? I bet he's been making these for a long time."

"Since he was a kid, he says," and that was strange to think about. There were only a couple of pictures of Grandpa when he was young; he'd always been serious-looking.

"Then you've got a few decades to go before you can match him," Victor said. "Maybe less, if you open a bakery after you retire."

"Why the hell would I open a _bakery_?"

And then they were bickering, and Victor was laughing, and that was – Victor probably would have left him alone, if he'd said anything. But Yuri didn't want to be alone and think about Grandma all night. He wanted something to distract him and let him turn his brain off for a few hours, and Victor was good for that. Yuri caught himself almost having fun, for the first time in days, when Victor said something so stupid about the movie they were watching that Yuri just _had_ to yell at him.

~!~

At fourteen, Yuri won the Junior GPF for the second year in a row, and he expected to do the same with Junior Worlds. There was no way that Victor wasn't going to give him the best choreography ever next year.

It wasn't thinking of that which had Yuri trailing him to the Seniors competition, because he wasn't there to watch Victor. Or most of his competitors: Giacometti was obscene, JJ was insufferable, Crispino was weird, and Bin was... there.

He was there because there was another Yuri.

Not Russian. Japanese. Yuri hadn't heard of him before, but he had to be good if he'd made it this far. And his short program, at least, was; it didn't have the magic of Victor's, and he sort of screwed up two of his jumps, but his step sequences were some of the best Yuri had ever seen. Better than Victor's. Surely even Yakov wouldn't have had anything critical to say about them.

And then his free skate was... well, the step sequences were still excellent. The crowd attempted to cheer him on after every flubbed jump, but other Yuri looked like he was about to cry when he finished.

Geez. Was he injured or something? Intrigued despite the score for the performance, Yuri followed him afterward, curious what kind of person he was, thinking of introducing himself. He had to be pretty tough – not just to reach the GPF, but to keep on going despite how badly his performance went, instead of falling apart totally. Yeah, so his jumps had been painful to watch. But he'd held it together for the spins and step sequences.

He turned out to be a crybaby, and Yuri ended up yelling at him in frustration and disappointment – what a loser – before slipping back out to meet up with Yakov and Victor.

Still miffed about that encounter, Yuri brushed off Victor's attempt to give him advice on his own step sequences. He wanted to improve, sure, but he was already so far ahead of his fellow Juniors. It also wasn't like he needed critique right this minute, despite how Victor had taken it into his head to try and coach him in bits and pieces when Yakov was busy elsewhere. There was no lost opportunity. Victor would just try again later.

Though maybe in the meantime, it would be more effective to re-watch the other Yuri's skating and pay close attention to his step sequences. Maybe from his qualifiers, given how badly he'd screwed up today. Just because his personality was weak didn't mean Yuri couldn't learn something from his skating.

At the banquet, Yuri planned to do the minimum amount of socializing that Yakov would let him get away with, and then stick with one of his rinkmates until he could escape. Either Victor, if he wasn't being too boring or drinking too much of the champagne, or Mila, depending on which of the other ladies she was with. (Georgi was actually pretty reliable at these sorts of events, but he was currently back in Saint Petersburg, no doubt making out with his girlfriend.)

He didn't notice the other Yuri at all until he stumbled into him on the dance floor, stinking of alcohol and still clutching a bottle of champagne. Ugh, disgusting. But then his eyes lit on Yuri, and somehow it turned into a dance-off. There was no way Yuri was going to back down from that challenge, no matter how drunk Katsuki was.

And it didn't stop when Yuri, winded, let Katsuki slip away for another challenger and tried to figure out what the hell had happened to his buttons. There was pole dancing with Giacometti – gross, not that it stopped Yuri from sliding in next to a delighted Mila and Victor to take pictures – and then Victor begged him to take photos while he danced with him, too. Thank god, with more clothes on.

All in all, it was a strange and (Yuri wouldn't have said) humiliating evening. Mila wouldn't stop laughing as they retreated to their hotel rooms. "I can't believe you challenged him to a dance battle and then _lost_ ," she crowed.

Yuri couldn't remember who had challenged who at this point. "I didn't lose," he snarled. Mila proceeded to spend their long wait for the elevator trying to prove he had with her photos.

He almost wanted to delete all of his own photos, like he could delete the entire evening with them. But scrolling through them the next morning, lingering on a couple of the nicer ones, he decided it wasn't worth the effort.

~!~

Yuri fully expected to have the world's best Senior debut when he was fifteen.

What he did not expect was for Victor to go missing halfway around the world before giving him his promised choreography. Victor wasn't exactly known for making sensible decisions, but this was a new level of surprise even for him. And it had to be for the other Yuri, too? When there was a better one right here in Russia? Who had been waiting on his promise for years? What the hell?

When he found out where Victor was, Yuri wanted nothing more than to march straight to the airport and buy a ticket for Japan. Only he had to time it so that Yakov wouldn't notice he was gone right away, and he had to slip away from his host family, too, after stocking up on everything Potya needed.

It was a long week of waiting for the right moment before he was finally heading toward Hasetsu. Yuri didn't have a real plan for how he was going to find Victor, but the town didn't look that big on Wikipedia. How hard could it be to find one famous foreigner with silver hair?

He certainly didn't need a plan for bringing Victor home. There was a good chance he was getting bored already. If not, Yuri would just have to yell at him some, maybe show up the other Yuri, bring his attention back to him. He was good at that; Victor was watching him more often, lately.

It would work out, Yuri knew it. Just as he'd known that he'd skate with Victor someday when he was a kid trying to copy him on the living room floor. He'd made that happen; he could easily persuade Victor to come back to Russia, too.

Maybe he could pick up a present for his grandfather while he was there. Japanese tea or something, he didn't know what they had there. He felt kind of bad about not being able to visit this summer, especially with Grandpa being alone now, but Grandpa said that he understood about his training schedule.

Yuri curled into his window seat, pulled on his headphones, and settled in for the flight. It wouldn't be long before he was flying back, Victor in tow, his future as bright as the sun gleaming on the clouds.


End file.
